Twilight Into Fire
by Myrielle
Summary: Before he was a wraith, he was a noble lord. By a strange grace, Arwen Undomiel encounters the man who would become the lord of the Nazgul just as a ring is sent to ensnare him. ::AU, Second Age::


_Disclaimer: Not mine; don't own 'em._

_Summary: Before he was a wraith, he was a noble lord. By a strange grace, Arwen Undomiel encounters the man who would become the lord of the Nazgul just as a ring is sent to ensnare him. ::AU, Second Age::_

**TWILIGHT INTO FIRE**

_S.A, 1705_

The sun shone brightly upon the _Alagoss_ even as strong winds filled her mighty white sails. Belegaer the Great Sea favoured them with calm waters this day and more out of habit than true belief, Arator sent up a quick and silent prayer of thanks to Eru and the Valar. He stood at the bow of the ship, hands linked behind him, feet spread slightly apart, his head tilted upward to the light as the wind tugged at his dark hair. Within hours now, they would be nearing the coast of Harad, returning finally to the city that he had spent twenty years building and strengthening. While many of his fellow Numenoreans had settled at the coast as well, _Annuivellas_ was the finest example of the strength of the West. Closing his deep grey eyes, Arator conjured a vision of his city from the darkness. Its white stone walls would sparkle under the sun, the pleasantly curved domes with their intricate carvings inlaid with precious marbles and gems, the sound of the flourishing port full of people scurrying to and fro from various ships with their merchandise from far off lands and oceans. The flags of his house and of Numenor would be floating in the breeze, the cries of gulls peppering the air and best of all, his sister and her husband would be there to greet him. They were all the family he had left in the world; both his parents had reached the end of their long lives and had gone to the House of Mandos in quiet dignity, locked in each other's arms forever.

With a quiet sigh, Arator opened his eyes. The memory of his parents would always be a cherished one but in that memory lay a dream that he was beginning to fear would go unrealized. He was already one hundred and fifty years old and if his parents' longevity was anything to go by, he would survive until he was close to three hundred. He was in the prime of his life and now it dawned on him that it would not be too long before he sensed the ageing of his body, saw changes in the mirror that he might not like. It also bothered him that he had not yet found a woman he wished to wed. As the only heir of his house, the duty of continuing on the family line fell to him. Arator hoped to give his son what his own father had given him: many years of guidance until he was ripe for leadership.

"So many lives depend on it," he murmured, words melding in with the wind and the sound of the white waves as the _Alagoss_ cut a swarth through the blue water. There were trade agreements to be made, alliances to be maintained and forged, political games which required a wily mind and experience, soldiers to train in defense of the city and its friends… the list was seemingly endless. There were days when the sun had set and he wondered where all that time had gone and thought about how much more there was to be done. There was so much he wanted to teach his son, hard earned lessons that he knew would aid his children in his absence. But in spite of always finding favour with the opposite sex, he had never encountered a woman whom he could call his soul's mate. Melima often complained, loudly and deliberately in front of her husband and him during meals, that it must be very difficult for the women of their city to have an eligible lord who gave the ocean and horses more attention that he did them. Arator would laugh because Melima would then bully her poor spouse, Suleril, into agreeing with her. Before he had left on this last trip for Numenor, she had declared she would begin arranging for him to meet eligible women if he did not bring a wife back. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Melima, if she made good on her threat, was going to have some busy months ahead of her. Of course, if he found her meddling unbearable, he could always go on another voyage. Perhaps he would go to Lindon and spend some time there with Maranwe. The Elf had become a close friend and they had weathered some very dark times during Sauron's assaults on Eriagon and the elvish strongholds. They had barely beat him back though, holding their ground at the shores until the Numenorean reinforcements had arrived. It had been a close call, too close and in the immediate months and years that followed, he had focused on building up his armies and ordered the smiths to forge more weapons and improve the designs of the current ones. Against one such as a Dark Lord, might was all one had as a defence.

Behind him, the boatswain shouted orders to the crew and he could feel the subtle turning of the ship. Perhaps Maranwe would introduce him to some _ellith_. The thought was absurd as it was sudden and he chuckled. The Eldar were beautiful, so much more beautiful than the Edain that it seemed almost unfair. And they would never age, never know the corruption of the body or parting from a lover. It was a secret jealousy he harboured, like a tiny flickering flame that would not die but spring to life at times when he saw them. Still, the idea of holding such a one in his arms had appeal.

Eyes flickered close once more as he allowed his mind to wander. Her skin was white, pale and rich like moonlight with that eternal glow from within. A face like a gentle oval, set with eyes as luminous and clear as pools. Blue like sapphires, rimmed with thick dark lashes as black as her hair. She made his heart beat faster, made him aware of the catch in his breath. He felt alive, so alive as she parted her lips, her mouth opened slightly in surprise.

_And then she looked at him_.

Arator's eyes snapped open and he gasped, feeling like he had just surfaced from a long and breathless dive down into the sea. Shaking his head, he reached out and grabbed the side of the ship, steadying himself. He squeezed his fingers against the wood, felt the blood pulse in his hand, the bite of the ship against his hand and remembered that he was in the real world now, not the one of dreams. She had felt so real though. And he had felt pierced by that gaze.

"Isilme." Against his will he named her. Flesh or no, it had been a vision of unparalleled beauty that had been given him and he felt regret because he knew that no such likeness could be found, not even amongst the Elves now that Luthien Tinuviel had passed.

...

_T.A, 531_

"Lady Arwen! My lady." The calls echoed beneath the mallyrn, threading their way through the flowers, carried on by a gentle breeze.

The lady Arwen wanted to giggle but she knew that Belegorn would hear her. So, she pressed her lips together, gathered up her silken gown and crept silently as she could through the wood. There were advantages to being the youngest daughter of Lord Elrond of Imladris; she had had to contend with the Terrible Two, namely Elladan and Elrohir. Necessity had taught her the virtue of stalking if she wanted to outsmart them or just get away from their pranks. At this very moment, it was extremely useful in escaping unwanted suitors.

Green grass crinkled softly beneath her shoes as she wound her way through the tall ancient trees. There was one place no one would think of going, only one place in all of Lothlorien where she would be alone. Unless her grandmother or grandsire decided that there was something there they needed. Arwen paused at the thought of Galadriel's disapproval but then Beregorn called once more and she knew that she had to hide, fast.

Down the steps she slipped, silent and swift. The glade was silent, save for the gentle music of the stream that ran through it. Here, magic was strong, almost thick but as light as air. Almost instinctively, her eyes were drawn to the elegantly carved pedestal, upon which sat that wide, shallow silvered basin known as Galadriel's mirror. It was a mystery, just as the Rings of Power which her father and grandmother both wielded.

In the distance, Beregorn's calls had gone silent. Feeling emboldened by the relief that washed over her, Arwen stepped out from beneath the shadows of the thick hedge which surrounded the glade and approached the basin. To her disappointment, it was empty. Her reflection gazed back at her. And it was then a thought took on a life of its own in her mind. Why not, it argued. Perhaps no one would ever know. And even if they did, what harm could it do?

Before she knew it, she was kneeling by the stream, the ewer filled to the brim in her hands. She had seen Galadriel do this, once. Up and down, the rise and fall of her arm as the clear water splashed down into the silver which captured it. Light struck the surface and Arwen blinked, startled. Then she sat the ewer down by the side of the pedestal, and looked into the mirror.

The surface swirled and although she was fixed on what the waters would reveal, Arwen noticed that the light had dimmed. There was a chill in the air, she realized, and it was sharp, biting into her flesh through silk and wool. The mirror turned black and she smelt sulphur and although she wanted to pull herself away from it, she could not, for her hands were frozen in a grip on the pedestal. She could not get free.

Out of the darkness arose an image. The crown was of jagged metal thorns which did not shine in the light but sucked all down into shadow. A cloak of night billowed from the figure astride a horse bound heavily with spells; it was the only way the animal would carry such evil. Arwen's mouth opened in a silent scream. It was a Nazgul, a Ringwraith. The faceless menace turned to look at her and a blast of air as cold as a mountain wind from Caradhras seemed to steal into her very spirit.

Then, the waters lightened and beneath the crown and hood, she saw a shape. Little more than a silhouette at first, it grew. Faint lines became clear, took on the shape of bones and gradually, the frightening skull was clothed with wrinkled, grey flesh. This too, grew firm and gained in colour and Arwen knew she was looking upon a man now, what the wraith had once been. Time was turning back on itself. The crown shrank and the hood fell away, transformed into a simple band of intricately wrought mithril and silver. Eyes clear as grey skies at dawn looked back at her and dark hair flew out in a wind that smelt of the sea. His face were proud, unbending and every lineament bespoke strength and valour.

A Numenorean, Arwen deduced and felt her breath catch as she gazed at him. In her times, such men were rare and few, living in secrecy and calling themselves Dunedain. Here was a lord of men, strong and noble. It was almost impossible to believe how deeply he had fallen into shadow, how corrupted he would become. In spite of her fear, sorrow and wonder touched her heart and she wished his fate could have been a different one.

"Ever has evil sought to destroy that which is noblest," she thought, recalling her father's words. Unbidden, her hand hovered over the surface, as if she would touch him, to warn him of the destruction that would come his way.

A scant second before her fingers touched it, the water bubbled, boiling and churning furiously. There was a faint roar, fire sprang forth and consumed the man before her and this time, Arwen felt her grip loosen and she fell back onto the grass. Her chest heaved as she gasped for air, clinging to the ground as though it would anchor her.

It was a long time before her limbs stopped shaking and her thoughts were once more her own. For it was not often that one looked into the heart of such evil, and saw the man that was before he became the wraith.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** _I hope I haven't lost my mind, writing this. But I read ChristineX's stories and they got me thinking. I still feel it is impossible for a wraith to go back to the way he was before, but I do want to explore what happened before they received the rings. Interestingly enough three of the nine were great men of Numenor, a race that Sauron hated because they helped the Elves drive him back to Mordor. Some might have taken the rings because they were already corrupted but the books never specified the manner in which the rings were given and some deception might have been involved. _

_I know this is an AU but I have Tolkien's other books and as much as possible, will stick to canon locations and events. Numenoreans spoke Adunaic and also Sindarin; they used Quenya for important documents and only nobles learnt it. I've taken some liberties by using a Quenya name for the hero, I'll readily admit that. If I make any mistakes, please let me know. I would greatly appreciate it._

_The title is inspired and cobbled together from Alfred Lord Tennyson's "Tithonus", which is also about immortality and the awful price one pays for taking something one should not have. _

_I have a whole adventure planned for Arator and Arwen, and that blasted Ring so I hope you stick around for the ride. Lastly, if you actually liked this, let me know! I feel like I've crawled out on a limb here and some reassurance would be lovely. _


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